


Burn

by Face_of_Poe



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, Gen, Minor Violence, Vaguely future/dystopian setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 02:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13731375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/pseuds/Face_of_Poe
Summary: He once got a postcard at work. Mailed local, no return address, a picture of the Old Capitol on the front and an old-fashioned sticker stamp on the back. A white candle, flickering orange and yellow flame on a black background.The attached red tag told him the missive had been flagged for review – a curiosity, more than suspicious, but Washington’s line of work risked the occasional enemy even back then.He’d shrugged and thrown the card away there at his desk.





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamlittleyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/gifts), [aidennestorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/gifts).



> This little ficlet is a response to a challenge between dreamlittleyo, aidennestorm, and myself, in which we each had 500 words to write up a fic based on 3 provided prompt words. 
> 
> My words, from dreamlittleyo, were:   
> Rough Terrain  
> Secret  
> Compromise 
> 
> Enjoy!

He once got a postcard at work. Mailed local, no return address, a picture of the Old Capitol on the front and an old-fashioned sticker stamp on the back. A white candle, flickering orange and yellow flame on a black background.

The attached red tag told him the missive had been flagged for review – a curiosity, more than suspicious, but Washington’s line of work risked the occasional enemy even back then. 

He’d shrugged and thrown the card away there at his desk. 

The next day, he learned that Alexander Hamilton had been arrested. 

A week later, Hamilton never existed in the first place. 

 

Ten years later, he gets a postcard with an identical stamp; this one, a picture of the Old Executive Mansion. 

The next day, he and Burr are sent to foil an attack on the government’s primary data storage facility. A veritable fortress of a building in unforgiving terrain deep in the Appalachians. 

Impenetrable, they say.

x---x

“You should have _told me_ ,” Burr grouses, “if taking this assignment left you compromised.”

As if _declining_ it had ever been an option. “I’m not compromised.” 

“What part of _shoot on sight_ has you confused, then?” Washington’s mouth presses in a tight line. “Was he your student?”

“My best.” Director Jay should have known that when he assigned this mission; or perhaps _would have_ , had Hamilton not been unwritten from the bureau’s history. “A protégé.”

“Was he something more?”

Washington sacrificed what little privacy remained to the public when he was chosen to serve his government; he can’t fathom what tell betrays him. “You know very well that’s impossible.”

“Hm.”

Burr raises his weapon and fires, point-blank.

 

“The next one’s in his head, Hamilton,” Burr calls while Washington hovers closer to shock than pain, the scent of his own burnt flesh roiling his stomach. “Let’s talk.”

Surprise and dismay war within him when Hamilton steps out from the shadows. Eyes hardened by years on the run dart between the wound on Washington’s bicep and Burr’s weapon. “Who keeps your flame?” he asks flatly. 

“Philo-Publius.” Burr lowers his weapon. Washington blinks uneasily. “How much time?”

Hamilton checks a countdown on his armband. “Eight minutes and… eighteen seconds.” 

“Go.”

 

“Wait – Hamilton, _wait_.”

“We’re running out of time.”

Washington swears and raises his weapon, the harsh whine of energy charge finally reaching his companion’s ears. Hamilton turns slowly, brow cocked. Unimpressed. “Burr’s a rebel?” A secret remarkable for its implausibility; Burr’s loyalism ran nigh on fanatic.

“If we’re lucky, his effort to disarm the explosives will grant him forgiveness in letting us escape.”

“Wasn’t the _point_ to blow up the -?”

“The point was _you_ ,” Hamilton snaps. “I need – _we_ need you.”

Finally, he understands. “Burr shot my implant.”

Hamilton’s eyes search his face. “Look around you, sir. At what they’ve become. What _we’ve_ become. _Help us_.”

“Help you do _what_?”

A hand seizes his wrist.

“Burn it, George. Burn it all down.”

Their eyes lock overtop the weapon; his aim holds steady.


End file.
